


lionhearted, we'll finish what we started

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dillon’s the sort of drunk where everything’s soft and exciting and he’s grinning for no reason but he’s sober enough to know what the thing is when he fishes it out of his lap. Anton’s giggling, still leaning on the back of the couch and into Dillon’s space. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all.</p><p>“What the fuck,” he says, staring at the collar dangling from his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lionhearted, we'll finish what we started

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steelwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steelwing/gifts).



> WELCOME TO EDM BANDOM HELL. i am blaming molly for this firmly, since it's a present rewarding her for being a rad friend and dragging me into this nasty abyss of nasty djs.  
> anyways title from the song lionhearted by porter robinson.

The trouble started- well the trouble started when Dillon dropped out, really, if he’d stuck with that whole gig he probably wouldn’t even _be_ in this situation. He’d be happily unemployed selling his body on the street or something. He’d never have met Joel or Porter or… or Anton, either. His life would be a saner place.

He wouldn’t trade this for anything, though.

The _real_ trouble starts at the after-party for the very first night of the tour.

He’s sitting on – someone’s couch, he’s not sure whose – talking to someone he thinks he should know, or might know if he weren’t drunk. He seems pleased enough to be talking to _Dillon_ so he doesn’t bother to think about it.

He startles when Anton leans over his shoulder and drops something in his lap. Dillon’s the sort of drunk where everything’s soft and exciting and he’s grinning for no reason but he’s sober enough to know what the thing is when he fishes it out of his lap. Anton’s giggling, still leaning on the back of the couch and into Dillon’s space. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

“What the fuck,” he says, staring at the collar dangling from his fingers.

He’s pretty sure it’s a dog collar. It’s soft black nylon, whatever it is, black with bright pink detailing and a metal buckle that looks like actual quality work. There’s a tag too, the heavy metal kind intended for names and addresses. It takes Dillon a moment of uncooperative fingers to get it turned around enough to read.

 _Zedd,_ it says in nice bold font.

“No, seriously,” he repeats because no, seriously. “What the _fuck_.”

“Dude,” says the guy he’d been talking to when Anton had dropped this particular bomb into Dillon’s lap. He sounds disturbed.

Anton chuffs a laugh in Dillon’s ear, warm and ticklish, and then he’s scrambling awkwardly over the back of the couch and dropping down to sit next to him. His arm comes around Dillon’s shoulder and Dillon leans into it automatically.

“A fan caught me at the door, handed that to me,” Anton says casually, like he gets handed labeled collars every day. “She was very enthusiastic.”

“Uh,” Dillon says, staring at the collar. For some reason he can’t take his eyes off of the glinting metal tag.

“That’s fucking weird,” the dude on Dillon’s other side says. He’s staring at the collar too.

“I thought it was sweet,” Anton says, sounding vaguely affronted. Dillon elbows him in the side without looking. He still can’t stop staring at the collar. The tag keeps spinning, catching the light.

“It’s a little weird,” he says. Anton makes a disgruntled noise and pokes him back.

“Are you supposed to wear it or are you supposed to put it on someone?” the dude asks, leaning in and poking at the tag. Dillon resists the completely unfounded urge to yank the collar away. It’s not like it’s _his_ , its got Anton’s stage-name on it and everything.

“She probably hoped _you’d_ put it on her,” Dillon says and elbows Anton in the side again. Anton retaliates with a pinch that fucking _smarts_ , okay, so obviously Dillon has to tackle him in order to regain his honor. In the ensuing tussle Dillon loses track of the collar and eventually he cries for mercy in the name of drinks. Anton is an absolutely vicious tickler.

He’s pretty sure it’s for the best, anyway. He doesn’t like the way his stomach had flipped when he’d finally registered what he’d been holding.

-//-

It comes back to haunt him at the next afterparty, when a tech pulls a deck of cards out and challenges everyone to poker. Dillon joins despite the fact he’s got basically no money on him. He figures he can owe someone or whatever.

He ends up facing off against Anton, a pile of coins and crumpled bills and trinkets between them. He so drunk he can’t see straight but that’s fine, he’s feeling _good_.

The collar drops onto the table and at first Dillon doesn’t even recognize it. At first it’s just a pile of black and pink and glinting metal. It’s not until everyone gathered around the table starts hooting with laughter that he actually figures it out.

The tag glints up at him.

“Loser is the winner’s servant for a whole day,” Anton challenges, grinning wide, and Dillon narrows his eyes. He’s never been one to back down for a fucking challenge.

“You’re on, bitch.”

-//-

Dillon wakes at the ungodly hour of eight A.M. to the sound of someone that _really_ wants to die banging on his door. He stumbles upright and makes his way to the door with ill grace. He sniffs himself as he goes and concludes that at least the smell of the cup of fruit punch and vodka that’d been spilled on him last night has mostly covered up the smell of stage sweat.

Anton’s standing at his door, grinning unnervingly wide and chipper for so early a morning. He’s bouncing on his toes a little, even.

“You look like hell,” is the first thing he says.

“Thanks,” Dillon mumbles and scratches his balls. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Bus call in twenty minutes,” Anton replies and snickers when Dillon curses and scrambles for the bathroom.

Showering in five minutes and dressing in thirty seconds results in just enough time to elbow his way through the breakfast crowd and snag a cup of coffee, tailed by an amused Anton the whole time. He keeps grinning like he knows something Dillon doesn’t. Dillon suspects shenanigans but can’t remember if he’d really done anything recently to deserve it.

They make it out to the parking lot just in time to catch the tour manager screaming into his phone. Dillon is pretty sure it’s about them judging by the way he goes bright red and has to breathe in slowly when he catches sight of them.

They’re not even late. Barely at all.

“He's coming on my bus,” Anton tells the tour manager solemnly. His arm around Dillon’s shoulders is fucking solid. Dillon's not actually sure he could get out of it even if he tried. “I'm claiming him in the Zaslavski name.”

The man throws up his hands, apparently uncaring of the papers that this scatters from his clipboard. A harried assistant scrambles after them.

“Do what y'all fucking want,” he snaps, “I'm not paid enough for this.”

He storms off and Dillon watches him go, harried assistant trailing behind and trying to hand him the papers.

“I think he likes us,” he says thoughtfully. Anton snorts and starts pulling him in the direction of the bus.

There’s a few other people on the bus when Dillon climbs on in Anton’s wake. They all look some variety of hungover, which gratifies Dillon greatly. They all wince and glare when the door slams shut. He can sympathize.

“Here,” Anton says, and drags Dillon further into the bus. The rear is mostly clear, and the tech curled up in the corner looks enough like a decaying corpse that Dillon’s pretty sure he won’t notice them.

“What-,” he begins, and turns to look at Anton.

Who’s holding the fucking collar dangling from his fingertips, black and pink and _glinting_. Dillon breathes in sharply because he’d forgotten about that fucking poker game.

“Shit,” he says succinctly.

“Fair’s fair,” Anton taunts, and he’s grinning so wide Dillon’s pretty sure he’s about to split his face in half.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Dillon grumbles and tries to pretend he’s not breathless. He can’t really meet Anton’s eyes. He covers by running his hand through his hair and rolling his eyes. “Fine bitch, get it the fuck over with.”

“Turn around,” Anton counters, and Dillon grumbles as he does. It’s not until the nylon is settling against the base of his throat that he considers that maybe he should have insisted on putting it on himself.

The collar was most likely originally for a large dog – Dillon refuses to contemplate it being intended for human use, he fucking _refuses_. In any case it’s loose around his neck, laying soft and cool across his collarbones. The tag is heavy, pulls the metal of the buckle cold and shocking against the back of Dillon’s neck.

He shivers once, reasons it away as the chill of the metal. His heart is beating a little fast, shit.

Anton’s staring when Dillon turns around, head cocked and eyes bright. It’s a lot of scrutiny and Dillon tries not to flush under it, shifting uncomfortably.

“Twenty four hours of being my personal servant,” Anton muses out loud, grin widening again. He’s unbearably smug.

“I’m getting you back for this, bitch,” Dillon insists absently.

“Sure,” he dimly registers Anton saying. He doesn’t pay it any attention. He’s having trouble focusing, distracted by the collar.

He tugs at it for a moment, trying to get used to the feeling of the nylon around his neck. It’s a _lot_ , a lot of sensation jangling through his nerves, distracting as hell. The tag keeps on bumping against his chest too. He considers trying to tuck it under his shirt just to keep it from moving around so much, moves to give it a try.

“Hey now,” Anton says quietly and bats Dillon’s hands away gently. “That stays put. Gotta let everyone know who you belong to, huh?”

He’s grinning when Dillon blinks and looks at him, that same strange little grin he’d been wearing since he’d held the collar out to Dillon. His eyes are dark and sparkling and too fucking cunning by far.

“Fuck,” Dillon says without thinking, because… because. Shit. _Shit_.

It takes him a beat to recover and then he’s forcing a laugh, forcing himself into motion. Acting the part, acting normal, acting like he’s not suddenly _rock fucking hard_ in his jeans.

“Fuck you,” he throws over his shoulder at Anton.

He just keeps grinning. Asshole.

-//-

Five minutes in the bus bathroom splashing cold water on his face and resolutely thinking unsexy thoughts about grandmas and Joel’s touring hygiene habits vanishes his boner. He still resolutely refuses to look at himself in the mirror after the first time he glances at his flushed face and the stupid, stupid collar. He knows what he fucking looks like, thanks.

He’s not like, _unaware_ of his kinks. He just… he hadn’t known about _this_ part. Whatever. He can deal with this. He can do twenty four hours of whatever humiliation Anton sees fit to dish out and then he can find a whole new and exciting demographic of porn to watch. Honestly, maybe this was for this best.

Anton spends the first hour or so insisting Dillon fetch him things, pointless things like pencils and coffee cups and his phone. Dillon rolls his eyes every time but the wide, sincere smile Anton gives him every time he hands over the necessary item just takes all the venom out of him.

Anyways the techs also packed into the bus do that for him, loud and long.

He spends the rest of the time lolling around in the corner of the couch Anton’s sitting on, arching an eyebrow at anyone that happens to glance at his collar. It’s not even the weirdest thing he’s ever worn, if he’s honest, he doesn’t know what the fuss is about.

-//-

They get to the venue and Anton spends the hour before the set insisting that Dillon carry him everywhere. It’s unusual only in that this time, instead of Dillon scooping him up and carrying him around despite the unimpressed faces Anton makes, it’s Anton pointing imperiously and demanding to be carried.

Dillon readily admits he could get used to this.

Anton climbs under the deck about ten minutes into Dillon’s set, folding himself down out of sight and grinning up companionably when Dillon glances down. He doesn’t say anything, seems content to sit back and listen. He taps Dillon’s leg companionably every time Dillon steps close enough for him to reach. It’s miles from the most distracting thing he’s ever done during one of Dillon’s sets and so it’s actually inexcusable how distracted Dillon is anyway.

He can feel the collar around his neck, feel it shifting with his movements, feel the tag glinting with the stage lights. It pulls when he lifts his arms. He knows everyone within fifty feet of the stage can see it’s there. He knows there’ll be a million pictures of this all over twitter by tomorrow morning.

He makes it through the set even though he doesn’t really remember it well. He remembers Anton curling a hand around his ankle for the last ten minutes or so. He remembers _that_. In any case the crowd seems to like what he had to give so he can’t have fucked up too badly.

He spends Anton’s set dancing obnoxiously on sidestage, trying to sweat out the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, until Anton laughs into his mic and gestures him up to sit under the deck. When Dillon does he reaches out absently and grabs him by the hair.

Anton probably doesn’t mean to tug as hard as he does. It stings a little, jerks Dillon a bit, and-

Dillon’s hard again.

It’s overwhelming for a moment, the smell of the venue and the music pounding in his ribcage and Anton standing above him, both arms up now, shouting something Dillon can’t hear over the buzz in his ears. His heart double-beats, timed right to the bass beat, and Anton glances at him out of the corner of his eye with a grin. God, he’s so fucking hard.

He doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing that makes Anton reach out again, gentle fingertips nudging against the side of his skull before Anton’s away again, hands flying against the board.

He can’t breathe for a moment.

He makes it through the set with carefully regulated breathing and tucking his hands under his thighs. He’s not sure he actually blinks once. He knows he doesn’t look away from Anton, not even at the photographer that’s all but shoving a camera into his face. He doesn’t care that the pictures will probably be way too telling.

He slips away just before Anton ends his set, into the bustle of sidestage and then the darker, busier bustle of backstage.

Navigating the mess of clearing off the stage and dodging techs seems ten times harder than he remembers it. Everything is moving so fast and too slow at the same time, difficult to process. He wanders for a while, feeling a little dazed and punch-drunk. His hearing isn’t working so great for some reason, everything seems far away and muted.

Anton finds him sprawled out in an abandoned folding chair in the corner, watching techs ferrying what looks like the same damn coil of cable back and forth.

“Hey,” Anton says, and Dillon startles. He hadn’t even noticed Anton approaching.

“Sup,” he says and half-asses a nod, holds out a hand to Anton. Anton takes it with a snort, hauling him up and out of his chair. Dillon spends a moment patting his pockets checking for phone and cards and keys, mindless nervous activity. It’s why he misses Anton stepping further into his space.

Anton’s fingers curl into his collar, tugging his head down.

It pulls him off balance and into Anton’s space, feels like it yanks all the air from his lungs and pulls every nerve in his body taut. He can’t fucking breathe. He can’t meet Anton’s eyes either, can’t say anything, can’t do anything but look at the ground. He hopes Anton doesn’t look down because he’s hard _again_ , shit.

“C’mon,” Anton says after a beat of silence that’s too long and too tense and _too much_. “Afterparty.”

Dillon considers resisting for a moment, leaving, begging off and taking whatever punishment Anton comes up with for ducking out of his forfeit. He wants the collar _off_ , wants the world back to spinning on its axis, wants whatever _thing_ he’s developed for Anton to go the fuck _away_. It’s jangling across every nerve Dillon has, making him uncomfortable and restless in his skin.

He could get out of Anton’s hold easily. He’s only got two fingers tucked into Dillon’s collar.

He follows docilely when Anton starts to pull purposefully. He doesn’t actually want any of that. He sort of wishes he did.

-//-

Anton keeps hold of his collar all the way to the car. When Dillon spares a thought he notices that there are absolutely people watching and laughing but he really can’t be assed to care. His brain is mostly still static, dizzy and unfocused. Anton’s hand on him feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Anton honest-to-god holds open the door for him, does everything short of legitimately lifting him into the seat. He only leaves off when Dillon irritably waves him away so he can close the door on his own.

It’s quiet in the car as Anton makes his way around the front to the driver’s side. Dillon takes a moment to breathe in deep, absorb the chill pressing against his skin. The fog lifts a little and by the time Anton’s throwing the driver’s side door open and sliding into the seat a hot and largely unfamiliar flush of embarrassment has migrated into the pit of Dillon’s stomach.

He slides his phone out of his pocket and flicks it unlocked busily, ignoring the contemplative look Anton is giving him. He doesn’t actually process what he’s looking at until Anton throws the car into drive and reaches over to start fiddling with the radio.

He opens twitter because fuck it.

His mentions are blowing the fuck up, everyone seems to be congratulating Zedd on his sick prank or whatever ‘the deal w the collar is lol’. Dillon mutes it all after the first few, feeling a bit sick to his stomach. He’s fine with being the butt of a joke, he puts _himself_ there more often than not but…

Whatever. Just… whatever.

A second later his phone buzzes, a text from Porter. Dillon glances at Anton before opening it. He’s driving, eyebrows furrowed. Dillon looks back at his phone.

 _Nice set_ is all it says. Dillon snorts.

A second later his phone buzzes again, another text. _Sick accessories bro_ this one reads. Dillon laughs out loud at that one because honestly. Fucking Porter.

“What’s up?” Anton asks quietly. When Dillon chances another glance he’s still driving, eyes on the road. The radio’s playing something quiet, some generic pop hit Dillon can’t really make himself focus on.

“Porter being Porter,” he says belatedly, snickering a little bit. He closes his phone when Anton doesn’t say anything back, turning to look out the window instead.

He catches himself running his fingers over the buckle of his collar and forces his hands back into his lap. It’s simpler.

-//-

The afterparty is at their hotel, thank god. Three floors down from their rooms, which Dillon is so thankful for because he’s pretty sure he’s going to fall asleep as soon as he gets even semi-horizontal. He’s had the longest fucking day of his life.

Anton hadn’t pulled him into the elevator by the collar at least. He hadn’t had to deal with that much.

The party is loud and full of people and when Dillon steps inside he gets a momentary burst of déjà vu so strong he has to stutter in space for a moment at Anton’s side. All this shit had started just like this, in a tiny hotel suite party. Fueled by alcohol and stupidity and fucking _Anton_.

The tag of his collar – and Dillon has to wonder when he’d started calling it _his collar_ \- thumps against his sternum. Anton turns to glance at him with his fucking raised eyebrow, a dare and a question all rolled into one.

“Let’s do this, bitch!” Dillon says and smiles his widest. Anton grins back and slips away into the crowd.

Dillon lasts about twenty minutes of mingling and drinking and trying to pretend like he’s not tugging his collar around every five seconds before he gives up and goes looking for Anton. He’s buzzing and drunk and exhausted and he’s not _happy_ about it but Anton had grounded him last time and that’s sort of what he needs right now.

He finds Anton on the couch in the corner, sipping something from a plastic cup. He’s alone but he grins and waves happily enough when he sees Dillon. 

Dillon moves to sit down, weirdly hesitant for some reason. He’s been off all day.

Anton clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Dillon freezes.

“Here,” Anton says simply and points down. Dillon looks.

He’s pointing at the ground by his feet. Dillon blinks at it and then up at Anton. He’s _pretty_ sure he’s not that drunk, difficulty thinking or no.

“You’re serious,” he realizes.

“Go on,” Anton replies, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve still got like eight more hours of indentured servitude.”

Dillon makes a disgruntled noise. Anton smiles back innocently. Dillon is really, really starting to hate the look in his eyes.

There’s carpet on the ground at least, when Dillon folds himself onto it. It’s rough and sort of grimy, and Dillon’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to be rolling around on it, but he’s relatively comfortable when he leans back against the couch. He loses some time in rubbing his fingertips against the shag, sipping from the cup someone passes him blindly. It’s alcoholic, whatever it is. Dillon needs it.

Anton’s hand finds its way into his hair after the second cup is halfway finished. He’s talking to someone over Dillon’s head, not that Dillon cares, but his hand is running through his hair with a gentle sort of focus.

Dillon closes his eyes against the drunken spin of the room and lets Anton’s hand guide his head to lean against Anton’s thigh. It’s warm, and the denim’s rough against his cheek, and he sort of drifts off a little bit.

He comes to what’s maybe an hour later.

He’s still drunk, but less so. Somehow in his sleep his arm has migrated around and he’s tangled up with Anton’s leg, head still leaned against Anton’s thigh. It’s comfortable, surprisingly so. Anton’s hand is still in his hair, just the gentlest of grips.

Something tingling and soft spreads through the pit of Dillon’s stomach and he lets his eyes slip back closed without making a sound. He’s sort of hard, he realizes belatedly when he shifts just a little bit. A low-level hum of arousal in the swell of his cock, spiking as he takes notice of it.

He shifts his focus before he can convince himself to stick his hand in his pants.

Anton’s talking to someone, he realizes dimly, someone sitting on his other side. It sounds tense, though Anton’s hand is still gentle in his hair.

“I’m just sayin’, dude,” Dillon hears and realizes it’s their tour manager. “It’s a little weird. People are talking about it, and it’s not all good shit.”

“I don’t care,” Anton says, and he’s trying to sound like he doesn’t give a shit but Dillon knows him too well to miss the tension in his voice. “It’s none of their fucking business anyway.”

Dillon hears rustling, the tour manager moving in something short and sharp. A shrug maybe, or throwing up his hands.

“Whatever, man, I’m just warning y’all. I didn’t know, uh…” he hesitates and for the first time Anton’s hand twitches. “I didn’t know you two were like that.”

“We’re not,” Anton says lightly, but his hand is suddenly tight in Dillon’s hair. “Just pranks, bro.”

“Sure,” the tour manager says, placating, and then the whole couch heaves as he stands up. “You should get him back to y’alls rooms soon though, you’re shipping out early tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Anton says and then everything is quiet again. The party is pretty much over, Dillon realizes. There’s practically no voices he can hear and the music is down low.

He hums and turns his face into Anton’s thigh. It’s pretty damn solid but he presses his face into it anyway, making a soft noise when it yanks Anton’s grip on his hair.

“You awake?” Anton asks quietly. Dillon huffs a sigh muzzily.

“Yeah,” he slurs after a moment, turning his head to look up at Anton. “Unfortunately.”

Anton’s looking down at him with big dark eyes, same damning little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Dillon considers it for a moment and then gives up. He’s too fucking drunk by half to figure out any of Anton’s bizarre little games. He closes his eyes again instead, ignoring the crick starting to build in his neck.

“C’mon, dude,” Anton urges, poking him in the cheek and jigging his knee a little. “Up, up.”

Dillon grumbles all the way up to standing upright, making his displeasure known. He’s halfway to hungover and he’s really starting to feel the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in. He makes sure to lean on Anton on his way up and is mildly annoyed when Anton bears up gracefully under his weight.

His first step ends in a little bit of a stumble.

“Whoa there,” Anton says and reaches out with a quirked grin, snagging the collar. It pulls, jerks Dillon to a stop, and he’s _so drunk, so tired_ , and the embarrassing little moan slips out before he can stop it.

Silence falls, abrupt and still. Anton doesn’t let go of his collar. Dillon doesn’t look at him.

“C’mon, let’s go the bed,” Anton says at last, starting towards the door with Dillon in tow, and Dillon works to keep his mouth closed on the whimper that elicits.

In the elevator Anton keeps his hand in Dillon’s collar, tucked in but loose. Dillon blames it for the way he gravitates into Anton’s space, pressing close against his side. It’s weird. It’s totally weird, so far from normal he doesn’t know how to get his bearings back, but he can’t focus on that when he can feel the flex of Anton’s fingers in the front of his collar.

That’s more important, somehow, in his head. Dillon doesn’t know. He’s still drunk.

Anton tugs him out of the elevator and down the hall and Dillon watches his door pass them without a stutter in Anton’s step. They stop at Anton’s door instead and Anton slips his card out with some fumbling, refusing to let go of Dillon long enough to use both hands.

His room is dark and a little chilly and Anton nudges him towards the darker shape of the bed in the gloom. His hands slip from the collar and Dillon really tries to ignore the way that sends a pang right through him.

“Shoes off, at least,” Anton whispers. It’s too fucking loud.

Dillon toes off his shoes unsteadily and sits down, feeling hesitant and awkward. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He doesn’t know what _Anton’s_ expecting.

“Are you wearing your jeans to bed too?” Anton asks, and a pair of pants fly past Dillon’s face to land haphazardly in the open suitcase across the room. All Dillon can do for several seconds is stare after them, confused and dizzy and drunk. Exhaustion is fizzing his veins but the anticipation is worse, sharp and nervy.

He wiggles out of his jeans but keeps his shirt and boxers on, leaves the pants in a crumpled pile on the floor next to his shoes. Cards, keys, phone and all. He thinks he’d like all his things together just in case… just in case.

In case he has to make a quick getaway.

He doesn’t like that thought, throws himself onto the bed to avoid it. The sheets are cool and he wiggles under them after a moment of hesitation. He shivers against the lingering chill and by the time he’s managed to settle into a spread-eagled sprawl across most of the surface area Anton’s standing by the edge of the bed.

He’s shirtless, not that Dillon can see much in the dark. His hair is ruffled and he’s wearing boxers, sagging loose on his hips. He’s watching Dillon watching him with an amused expression.

“Like what you see?” Dillon asks without thinking about it, pulling his biggest smile on. He regrets it a split second later.

Anton’s eyes flicker down just once, a burning look that Dillon thinks he can feel down to his toes. Suddenly he’s so fucking thankful for the sheet’s he’d wiggled under, because he can’t think of anything worse than Anton seeing the way Dillon’s cock is twitching right now.

“Move over, asshole,” Anton says with a little laugh a beat later, and he sounds so fucking casual. Dillon scoots back in a daze. He doesn’t realize what’s happening in time to stop himself watching Anton climb in, watch the bare curve of his back and his stomach and everything, everything. He’s breathless and hard and he thinks it must be so fucking obvious when Anton finally settles down under the sheets too and turns his head to look at Dillon.

Anton's mouth is right there, right fucking there. So close Dillon can practically taste it already, feel how soft it must be. He can feel Anton's breathing shallow and uneven, warm in the chill air.

He wants it. He wants it so badly he's blind with it.

Anton's eyes glitter in the dark.

He's watching Dillon quietly, almost expressionless, totally unreadable. Dillon wonders how Anton can't see how broken open he is right now, how badly he wants fingers in his collar tightening, wants Anton leaning forward and bringing their mouths together, wants certainty. They're so close, so tense and waiting it's a forgone conclusion. He doesn’t know what else this whole thing could have been leading up to and god, he wants it. The moment stretches and stretches, pressing on until it feels like it’s all melting around him.

Anton breathes in once, sharp and deep and Dillon’s heart skips a beat, another one, anticipation tingling through his fingertips and nothing in his head but _yes, yes, yes_.

His collar clinks in the silence. It’s shockingly loud and Dillon startles, a flinch that shakes the bed. Anton’s expression flickers a little bit and then he’s pulling back, his warmth slipping away with a pang of loss. There’s space between them suddenly, cool with awkwardness instead of the charged tension of before.

“I-,” Dillon begins, tongue clumsy on the sound. He’s cut off by Anton heaving up and grabbing the blanket, dragging it more squarely over them. It seems final. It seems like a dismissal.

“Sleep,” Anton says and taps his palm gently against Dillon’s cheek.

Dillon closes his eyes obediently and tries to ignore the tiny, sickly ache in his chest.

-//-

Dillon stumbles into wakefulness in the early hours of the morning.

The first thing he notices is that his mouth tastes like _ass_. The second thing he notices is that he has to piss so badly just the thought of it is putting him close to tears. The third thing he notices is…

Anton’s tucked into his side, face pressed into the pillow, arm thrown across his stomach. He’s warm and heavy and snuffling a little bit in his sleep. Dillon’s heart turns over, aching and fluttering, and he takes a careful breath before starting trying to untangle himself from Anton. It’s slow going.

He makes it to the bathroom with what feels like seconds to spare, letting out a relieved sigh as he closes the door behind him.

He looks in the mirror when he’s finished.

He’s a mess of disheveled hair and pillow creases across his cheek. He’s flushed, hot and pink with sleep. He looks wrecked and not in a good way. The collar’s pressed against the sides of his neck in his sleep too, leaving red imprints in his skin that don’t fade when he presses his fingers against them.

The tag’s shifted over to his back. He readjusts it without thinking, lets it fall against his chest again.

 _Zedd_. He laughs, short and too loud in the bathroom. It’s just so fucking ridiculous, how badly a little strip of black nylon with a stupid, stupid tag has fucked him up. His laughter echoes awkwardly and he considers tucking it away under his shirt. He doesn’t, in the end. He doesn’t bother to figure out why, he’s tired and fucking hungover.

What the fuck ever.

Anton’s still sleeping when Dillon finally finishes fucking around in the bathroom. He’s shifted over into the spot Dillon had left and he grumbles something incoherently when Dillon reaches out awkwardly and tugs gently on a tuft of hair sticking straight up into the air. It’s so tempting to crawl back into bed with him.

Dillon makes sure to close the door behind him quietly when he stumbles out in search of his room. His bed isn’t nearly as warm and comfortable and he gives up in seconds, yanking down a pillow and wrapping himself around it.

It helps a little bit. He drops right off.

-//-

He comes awake again a few hours later, head aching and limbs barely cooperating. When he rolls over and fumbles out his phone he discovers he’s got an hour until his alarm goes off and he has to scramble for bus call. Enough time to shower and get a coffee and maybe call Porter or Joel or someone, someone he can freak out to without actually talking about it.

He gets through the shower part just fine, apart from the moment in the mirror when he’d stared at the collar for a solid five minutes. He leaves it on in the end, the nylon is waterproof and he’s just too tired to care. He’ll figure it out later, when he’s finally finished his stupid forfeit.

It’s a hotel shower, nothing fancy, but Dillon takes his time. He palms his cock a few times but he’s always had a hard time getting off when he’s feeling off his game. He’s so far off his game now that he’s pretty sure he’s playing a different sport. And he doesn’t know a single one of the fucking rules. No one’s bothered telling him.

He steps out of the bathroom, wrapping his towel around his waist, and then pulls up short because Anton’s sitting on his bed.

He can’t actually process what he’s seeing for a moment, it’s so unexpected. Anton looks just as surprised to see him and he's got his phone in his hand, what looks like some sort of stupid cutesy phone game open on the screen. He still looks sleep-ruffled, pink and messy and just…

Dillon turns right back around and closes the bathroom door behind him.

His old clothes are grimy and smell of sweat and old alcohol but he slides into them anyway. He’s not fucking dealing with this without pants on, he’s just not. Whatever Anton wants to say about... whatever this is about. Dillon gave up on understanding ages ago.

Anton’s on his feet when Dillon comes back out, phone nowhere in sight. His face is set and Dillon can’t read him at all. It’s a new feeling.

“Sup?” he asks, breaking the silence because that’s his job.

“You were gone,” Anton says, head cocking a little bit. His eyes are piercing on Dillon’s face and he steps forward a little bit, into Dillon’s space.

Dillon considers pretending he doesn't know what Anton's talking about but decides, exhausted, that he just can't. 

“Yeah,” Dillon says and tries to seem like he isn’t a little breathless. Like he doesn’t want to take a giant step back and maybe take off running. Like he doesn’t want to reach out and run his fingers through the stupid tufts of Anton’s hair, pull him in and kiss him until he can’t breathe. It makes his words hard to think through. “It was like… it was weird, right?”

Anton doesn’t respond but his face tightens and Dillon gets the beginnings of a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Anton,” he prompts when the silence has gone long enough to be terrifying.

“I thought…” Anton begins, and then trails off. His hand comes up, fingertips hovering over the collar.

Dillon’s head tilts, despite the fact that he hadn’t really decided to. He just wants Anton touching it, touching _him_. He’s gotten used to the casual way Anton has of pulling him around.

“Well, doesn’t matter.” Anton says at last and laughs, hand dropping away. It’s bitter and quiet and not at all like Anton. “I’m letting you off for the last hour or two, you can take that off.”

Dillon can’t breathe, like Anton actually had threaded his fingers into the collar and yanked it tight.

“No, what-” Dillon asks desperately when he gets his lungs working again, because it can't end like _this_. “What, you thought what?”

Anton pauses for a very long time, watching him.

“I thought you might be,” he says finally, nonsensically, “but you're not or... or you are but not with _me_ and that's totally fine, I get it.”

“What,” Dillon says because, what?

“It's fine,” Anton repeats fiercely, and there is absolutely nothing good about the still, closed-off expression on his face or the glitter in his eyes. “I'm sorry you had to deal with... this.”

“No,” Dillon says, holding up a hand like it'll physically stop the words coming out of Anton's mouth. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

Anton sucks in a breath. Sharp and angry. He's _angry_ , and Dillon doesn't even know why or at who. He's pretty sure it's at him, actually. He doesn't know how he's managed to fuck everything up despite how careful he's been, doesn't even understand.

“Just...” Anton snaps, and Dillon flinches a little. Anton pauses and then sighs, shrugging. “Just throw that away when you take it off. I don't want it back.”

Anton’s halfway through the door by the time Dillon manages to haul in a breath, sort out his words even a little bit.

“But what…” he says and swallows hard, hand coming up to clutch the tag still dangling against his breastbone. He’s having so much trouble talking, his words keep tangling up and he’s never been good at this, never born up well under pressure. Especially pressure like this, when it all means so much.

Anton pauses at the door, hand on the doorframe next to the knob. He’s looking back at Dillon, face closed off, and he probably wouldn’t admit it if asked but Dillon knows him. He knows Anton better than anything. He’s shit scared.

“What if I don’t want to,” he gets out, because even though he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing he’s absolutely sure that letting Anton get away would be the _wrong_ thing.

Anton is across the room again so fast it makes Dillon a little dizzy, in Dillon’s space, hand coming up like he’s going to touch. He doesn’t, hovers in space for a long moment. He’s staring. Dillon wonders, halfway hysterical, how he hasn’t just read the desperation on Dillon’s face.

“You… don’t?” Anton asks slowly, precise intonations clicking into place.

“No,” Dillon agrees, and shuffles his feet for a moment. He doesn’t know how to _say_ this. “I want… and you want too, you said you did. So.”

“Dillon,” Anton says, and his fingertip finally lands on the edge of Dillon’s collar. Dillon’s eyes close for a moment. He’s halfway to hard, has been for what feels like days. He can barely feel Anton, more a shift of air than anything, but his nerves are pulled so tight that Dillon moans anyways. It’s low and faint but unmistakable in the quiet.

When Dillon manages to drag his eyes open Anton’s watching him still, eyes dark and so familiar. That same look as he’d had when he’d buckled the collar on in the first place, and Dillon doesn’t know how he’d missed the sharp possessiveness there.

“God, shit,” Dillon spits and presses his hand to Anton’s, jerking it against his collar. And it’s his fucking collar, it’s _his_ and he’s Anton’s, that’s what this is all about. That’s what every moment of this entire mad twenty four hours has led up to, every confusing muddled second. The two of them, raw and needy.

Anton makes a noise, something almost a snarl and almost a moan and his hand is fisting on Dillon’s collar, tight and proprietary like he hasn’t quite been before. Dragging Dillon assuredly forward, breathtaking in its surety.

For all the force of his pull his lips are gentle on Dillon’s. He’s soft, warm, a little chapped. It’s sweet, just the touch of mouths and trembling breathing and Anton’s fist in his collar, holding him inexorably still. Dillon almost wants to strain against it, just to test Anton’ grip, but he wants this more. Wants this first kiss to be good, something worthy.

Anton pulls away a little bit. He’s breathing unevenly, eyes bright.

“I didn’t-,” he says, and licks his lips. Dillon can’t _not_ look, breathing catching. “You want this?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Dillon tells him honestly. Anton snorts but he doesn’t stop looking at him, eyes brighter and brighter, grin spreading across his face.

“Jesus,” Anton says at last and threads his free hand through Dillon’s hair, pulling him forward again.

This kiss is messy, tongues and Anton’s teeth catching on Dillon’s lip, the soft scratch of his stubble. It’s new, fucking terrifyingly new, and Dillon can’t think about any of it. Anton’s hand in his collar keeps him in place and all he has to think about is meeting Anton’s lips and tongue, his hands finding the waistband of Anton’s jeans, the warm feeling of skin under his palms.

He loses himself for a long while in the catch of teeth and the warm skin under his hands. He doesn’t really register how ragged Anton’s breathing is until he’s moaning, sounding almost anguished, hauling Dillon back by the collar. Dillon’s cock twitches at the sensation, the sharp feeling of being controlled, being held in place.

“God,” Anton hisses. They’re still so close Dillon can feel the word against his mouth. Anton looks like hell, like softcore porn, all reddened mouth and flushed cheeks and dark, almost dangerous stare. 

“Gonna go to hell,” he jokes breathlessly because the words he wants to say - how much he fucking wants this, how he can't breathe with wanting it - are terrifying. 

Anton laughs but it doesn’t sound amused. It sounds dark, turned on, like a threat and a promise Dillon wants him to go through with.

“For all the shit I want to do to you,” Anton agrees and cocks his head. The hand in Dillon’s hair loosens, sliding down to cup his cheek. The way his thumb strokes Dillon’s cheek is gentle, completely at odds with the glitter in his eyes when Dillon’s breath catches and catches again. Almost casually his thumb slides down to press against his lower lip. It pulls, reminds Dillon how raw with kisses his mouth is.

Anton’s moan when Dillon licks at the pad of his thumb is gratifying.

“Fuck,” he hisses and tugs once on Dillon’s collar, sharp. “Want your mouth on me.”

It takes a split second to make the decision but Dillon thrives on those and anyway, he wants this so badly.

It’s worth it, for the shocked noise Anton makes when he drops to his knees. It yanks Anton’s grip on Dillon’s collar, pulls his head back and something about that sends a thrill down his spine right to his cock. He wonders - and fuck, he wants it like he's never wanted it before - what it would feel like. Anton fucking him, hand in his collar.

Anton stares down at him for a frozen moment and then he's laughing, quiet and wondering.

“Jesus, Dillon,” he says lowly, and his hand falls from where it'd been hovering, surprised, in the air. It falls to his waistband and then slips lower, fingers spreading over the bulge in his jeans. His hips move as his hand does and Dillon doesn't think he could look away for anything. It's fucking obscene and his mouth is watering.

“Wanna suck you off,” he says, and the way his voice comes out is hoarse and ruined already. “Anton, please.”

“Shit, I need-,” Anton begins and then he's stepping back, hand in Dillon's collar pulling him along.

It's a bare few feet to the wall, Anton pulling him along. It's awkward, kneeing forward with his erection, but there's something about the unyielding pressure of the collar pulling him forward that makes it still one of the hottest things Dillon's ever done.

Anton leans back against the wall and finally lets go of Dillon's collar, hand slipping to rest against his cheek instead. It's gentle, tilting his head ever so slightly, and he turns his head to press a kiss to Anton's palm. 

It's tender, Anton making a thin noise above his head. Too tender, terrifying, and Dillon lurches forward as much to break the touch as anything else. 

Anton's shirt is riding up ever so slightly and Dillon slides his thumbs under the fabric to press against the ridges of his hipbones. His skin is hot, burning under Dillon's hands and he leans forward to press kisses against Anton's waistband. 

Anton curses and yanks his shirt over his head hurriedly. His hands come back to Dillon's hair, running through the strands and pressing gentle touches to his shoulders and neck. His fingers catch and pause on the collar and Dillon shivers every time, cock twitching. 

Anton's skin tastes clean, like he'd showered before coming to Dillon's room. He licks, licks again, sucks gently just to get the taste of Anton's skin. 

Anton's progressed from soft breathing to panting, sharp and ragged, by the time Dillon can distract himself enough to try undoing his pants with fingers that are suddenly clumsy as hell. Anton's gripping his hair gently, he discovers distantly, and that'd be important but more so is the hot hardness he can feel under his hands. It's tenting Anton's jeans. 

Dillon gives up on the button in a minute, leaning forward and nosing desperately against the bulge through the denim. It smells of arousal and precum already, thick and heady. 

“Shit,” Anton says above his head, and if Dillon weren't so focused on the hot hardness he can almost, almost taste then the hoarseness of Anton's voice would probably leave him gasping. “God, Dillon, fucking _hell_.”

“Fuck-,” he says, breaking away and trying again with Anton's button. He manages this time and nearly cries with relief, yanking down the zipper. Anton's hands join his, leaving Dillon's hair to help work Anton's jeans down his hips. 

Anton's cock springs free and Anton wraps a hand around it, gasping out a rough, guttural few words in Russian. He spends a moment in the lazy motion of his hand, a gentle up-down that can't be doing enough. 

Dillon takes a moment, just looking. The subtle shape of Anton's body in the dark, his stomach and chest and thighs, dark line of his jeans cutting across pale skin. The dips and shadows of his body, the peaks of his nipples and the cut of his collarbone. His hand around his cock. It's something dangerously close to beautiful, enough to have Dillon's breath short and his erection desperate for relief. 

He wants to taste, wants to touch, wants to explore every part of Anton. It takes a moment to edge forward those last few inches and brace his hands on Anton's thighs. The first tentative lick, right against the tip, becomes the sound of the back of Anton's head thumping gently against the wall a moment later. 

Anton isn't huge but Dillon hasn’t had a dick in his mouth in a while and it takes him a moment to adjust in tiny licks, sucking the head into his mouth and working his way down Anton's shaft in slow bobs. Anton isn't loud, Dillon discovers hazily when he's made it halfway down. He's not silent either though, quiet little desperate noises that echo the soft grip of his hand in Dillon's hair.

Dimly he becomes aware of his cock aching with inattention and he frees a hand to press his palm to his erection. He's so hard he has to moan, sound muffled by Anton's cock. Anton's hips buck with it, just an aborted thrust into Dillon's mouth. 

“Christ, fuck,” he says lowly, voice breaking a little bit on the second word. “Dillon, Dillon, are you-?” 

Dillon thrusts shallowly against his hand and moans again, sucking sloppily. Anton's hips buck, less carefully, and then again when Dillon takes it readily. It's better, almost, letting Anton control the motion. He's gentle, a soft sliding in and out that Dillon can drift on, the sensation of his mouth being filled and the almost-enough pleasure of his hand pressing on his cock. 

He's lost himself so much he isn't sure how long it's been, only knows that suddenly Anton's cursing and his movements are frantic when his hand gathers Dillon's hair. 

“Off, off,” Anton grits out, pulling Dillon’s head back again by the hair. He comes away gasping, mouth sore and slick with spit. 

“'Ton,” he gets out. His jaw is sore, his mouth tender and raw, and his orgasm is gathering in the tightness in his belly and cock. Too far away but close enough to have him panting and half-wild. 

“Fuck, I wanna… shit, can I come on your face?” Anton gasps and Dillon moans, startled.

“Yeah, I-,” he says, voice cracking. “Please, I want-.”

“Jesus,” Anton hisses, and his hand in Dillon's hair tilts his head back. His other hand speeds on his cock, hard and fast. 

Dillon has a moment to close his eyes and open his mouth and then Anton's crying out softly and come lands on his cheek, lips. It's bitter, salty and he licks after it until Anton lets him go and he leans forward, licking the last few drops clean. Anton's softening in his mouth and he hisses after a moment, clumsy hands pushing Dillon's head away. 

“You're so…,” Anton whispers and then he's hitching up his boxers, stepping out of his jeans and dropping to kneel in front of Dillon. His hands are awkward and gentle, cupping Dillon's cheek and sliding down his neck to tuck fingers into his collar. Dillon shudders, moaning too loud. He can't control himself, is so far beyond control. He needs to come so badly he's shaking. 

“Please,” he gets out, anguished, and Anton makes a noise in response that's wrecked. He leans forward and kisses Dillon, doesn't seem to care about the taste of his own come in Dillon's mouth. He's eager, clumsy, pulling back and pressing gentler kisses to his mouth and cheeks. 

“Here, back,” he pulls away long enough to say, and his hands are urging Dillon down until he falls backwards, Anton leaning forward between his bent knees. His hands are scrabbling at Dillon’s waistband and it takes a moment to coordinate, to plant his feet and lift his hips so Anton can tug his pants down. A moment of maddening, tantalizing brushes of pressure against his tented erection. 

He expects Anton to lean in when his cock pops free but he doesn’t, he leans back instead and works Dillon’s jeans all the way down and off. He’s surging back a moment later, forcing Dillon’s legs wider, a warm hand falling on his hip. It’s inches shy of his cock and he whines, desperate. 

“God, you look so…,” Anton says and then he’s bracing himself on the floor, dipping to press a kiss to Dillon’s stomach right above his belly button. It’s hot, tickles and sends ripples of pleasure through Dillon that leave him gasping. He needs more, _needs_ it, could almost cry with how hard and how close he is. 

“So fucking hot,” Anton mumbles into his skin, more a buzz of vibration than a sound, and then his hand is dropping to cup Dillon’s balls and Dillon can’t hear him over the noise he makes. It’s broken, frantic, a wordless plea and he thrusts into the touch as much as he can in the limited space Anton’s allowed him. 

“Please,” he begs when he gets his voice back. He doesn’t care how he sounds, can’t even really process enough to tell, but Anton must like something about it because he’s suddenly on the move again, pressing a series of wet kisses to Dillon’s skin up his stomach to his chest. His hand rolls a little bit, a motion that arches Dillon’s back. He closes his eyes against the sensation and gasps for air. 

“So good,” Anton murmurs and then his mouth is on Dillon’s nipple, a moment of warmth and wetness and then the sting of teeth. It’s so much and he cries out, loud and sharp in the quiet of the hotel room. He bucks, can’t help it, can’t even think. 

Anton’s head lifts and he surges up, hovering for a moment. Dillon doesn’t know what he’s doing until he feels Anton’s fingers, wrapping around his collar and pulling. 

He’d forgotten about the collar entirely, somehow, but now he’s desperately aware of it around his neck. Of the grip Anton has on it, holding him down and in place. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, gets only as much as Anton lets him have. 

He tugs against it just a little bit, a slight pressure not even enough to strain his air supply. It’s still enough to have his eyes rolling back, the weight of Anton’s body holding his collar to the floor. 

Anton’s hand on his balls finally lets go, slides up and wraps around his shaft. It’s shocking, so fucking good, and he bucks into it, thrusts into the punishing, rapid motion Anton’s using. He’s so fucking close already, he doesn’t think he’ll last long at all. Orgasm is tightening the pit of his stomach already. 

He’s crying out, moaning so loudly that he doesn’t even notice that Anton’s talking for a moment. 

“Mine, mine,” Anton’s panting in his ear, and that’s all it takes. 

Dillon’s orgasm slams through him like a fucking bass drop, a crescendo of white, endless relief. He’s aware dimly that he’s making noise, that his back is arching against the floor so hard he’ll probably be feeling it later. All he can feel now though, for endless, unendurable moments, is pleasure. Anton’s hand on him, Anton’s mouth against his ear, Anton’s body warm above him. 

When he finally opens his eyes Anton’s watching him again. He’s smiling, a familiar strange little grin that Dillon thinks he finally recognizes. It’s affection, something Dillon would almost call adoration if he were feeling brave. 

“Jesus,” he mumbles and reaches up with orgasm-numb fingers to push sweaty hair away from Anton’s forehead. Anton’s smile widens and his eyes close for a moment, expression soft for a split second. Dillon recognizes the expression like lightning, knows it from a thousand laughing moments and a million candid photographs. 

“Going to hell,” Anton replies, eyes opening, sounding absolutely unbearably smug. Dillon huffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever, bitch,” he snarks and starts to heave upright. 

Anton’s hand is still in his collar, he discovers when it pulls him up short. A second later Anton’s fingers slip free and he’s pulling back far enough to let Dillon sit up but it’s enough, enough to bring the outside world roaring back in. 

Dillon heaves upright and spends a moment awkwardly pushing his hair back. It’s growing out long enough to tickle. 

“So,” Dillon says slowly when he can’t avoid looking up. “What… what now?” 

He’s sort of expecting awkwardness, Anton shrugging or mumbling or maybe… well, maybe being told they’re better off as friends. Not that he knows what this is anyway. Fuckbuddies? For some reason the thought of that makes his stomach turn over. 

Instead Anton huffs a laugh that’s only slightly mocking. Mostly, affectionate. 

“Moron,” Anton tells him affectionately and leans forward. 

The kiss is warm and aimless, a long moment of moving lips and the brush of tongue. Dillon closes his eyes and lets himself have it, breathes in and threads a hand through Anton’s hair to keep him close. Anton wants him. Anton wants _him_ , has a special smile for him. He doesn’t know what to do with that information yet but he’s pretty sure he’s got some good shit coming in the future.

-//-

The tour manager isn’t red so much as a gentle mauve when Dillon and Anton finally rock up to bus call, steaming cups of coffee in hand. Strangely, when he sees them he deflates instantly. The harried assistant standing just a step behind him eyes his clipboard nervously.

“Claiming him-,” Anton begins. 

“In the Zaslavski name, I get it,” the tour manager says and rolls his eyes. “Just get your boyfriend on the fucking bus.” 

“Aye aye, captain,” Dillon says brightly. The tour manager sighs heavily through his nose but waves them on. 

They make it about five feet from the bus before Dillon realizes. 

“Your _boyfriend_?” he demands because he’s not like… he’s not _opposed_ to the idea, exactly, which is a discovery he’s going to have to examine thoroughly at a later date. But it’s a decision he feels like he should have had a hand in at least. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Anton says soothingly and then shouts with laughter when Dillon punches him in the arm.


End file.
